


Here, Where We Are

by esteefee



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Episode Related, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-20
Updated: 2009-03-20
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:08:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/esteefee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tag to Common Ground.  Rodney finds what he's had all along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here, Where We Are

**Author's Note:**

> For [Gaffsie](http://gaffsie.livejournal.com).

Rodney's eating finally, after two days of nauseating, horrified terror. Radek is sitting across from him in the mess hall, both of them typing one-handed on their laptops while shoveling food with the other.

Though Rodney is conscious of the radio chatter with its growing tone of vague urgency, he's got his headset turned down low enough that he doesn't pick up on the subject of their repeated inquiries until Carson raises his voice saying, exasperated, _"Well, can't **anyone** tell me where the Colonel's gotten himself off to?_

And then Rodney sees Radek sneaking a look at him, as if Rodney's supposed to know, or at least respond, but Rodney is already turning up the volume on his headset saying, "What's this about Sheppard?"

He learns that, no, no one has seen a sign of the squirrel-haired bastard since he snuck out of the infirmary after his rescue. The infirmary where Rodney had thought, for a little while, at least, John would be safe. Because the last two days have been no less than unbearable, watching that _thing_ feeding on his—on John. So Rodney'd thought he could at least have five minutes without having to worry all over again.

From all the anxious questions, he is painfully aware he was wrong.

Rodney shoves away from the table, waving his hand at his dessert and then pointing to Zelenka to indicate that, yes, to him falls the sacred trust of the pound-cake, and this pound-cake must still be in its hallowed, virginal condition when its rightful owner returns.

He leaves Radek muttering uncomplimentary things in Czech, and begins to search. After the usual places, Rodney tries the not-so-usual—the Ancient infirmary, from which they'd stripped all the equipment but left some beds that he and John had found useful, on occasion. The west tower's broken holography room, where the floor is padded thick and the projector stutters images of a waterfall and green, moss-covered rocks.

No Sheppard. Not at John's quarters, either; though Rodney assumes he's not the first to check there, he never leaves anything to chance. And not in the mud room, which Sheppard always seemed inordinately fond of, despite the fact the mud was the consistency of pudding and smelled too much of sulfur.

Finally, tired from tromping around and containing his rage at John for getting lost _again_, this time while safely _home_, Rodney trudges to his own quarters to change out of his mud-spattered uniform.

And finds Sheppard lying asleep on his bed.

_Thank God._

John is completely nude, face down, both arms wrapped around one of Rodney's pillows, and with his skin damp from what must've been one hell of a shower, if the pruned nature of John's bare toes is anything to go by.

"Idiot," Rodney mutters, and goes into his bathroom to key his radio. "Elizabeth, I found him, but he's dog tired and says he'll have to report to Carson in the morning for the requisite poking and prodding."

_"Rodney, I hadn't completed all the scans I need—"_

"Yes, I understand that, Beckett. But I really think he needs sleep rather than more of your infernal infirmary shenanigans at this moment."

_"Shenanigans?"_ Elizabeth sounds as if she's holding back a laugh.

_"Aye, then, Rodney. Please tell him to report to me first thing."_

"I'll go get him and drag him there myself," Rodney promises, and clicks off.

Since he's in the bathroom anyway, he takes care of business, then washes his hands and brushes his teeth before turning off the light. John is still there—not a figment, not a wishful dream inspired by the nightmare of loss. John—real, alive, young again and stretched out across Rodney's bed, firm ass tilted up by the angle of one crooked knee.

Rodney's heart does something strange and unaccounted for, a kind of flip-flopping sideways beat, and he swallows hard before stripping off his shirt, pants and shoes and going to sit by John's left hip.

The bed shifts under his weight, and John makes a questioning sound that turns into a yawn, his spine arching into a stretch. His knee slides up and bumps into Rodney's thigh. It jolts John awake, and suddenly he's twisting to look blearily at Rodney.

"You're here," Rodney says nonsensically. Then he rests his hand on the smooth skin of John's hip, repeating, "You're _here_."

"Ro'ney. Sorry," John says, and yawns again, all white teeth and curling tongue. Rodney wants to open his mouth and say some things—awful, biting criticisms of John's obvious propensity to think no one notices, that no one _cares_ what happens to him. Or maybe Rodney will mention how his heart felt like it was disintegrating under the muffled pain of John's screams, how Rodney thought for a moment he would lose his mind if he couldn't follow the UHF waves of Koyla's transmission to gut the man with his bare fingers.

But John is already curling toward him, a sleepy comma moving more quickly as he reaches up to catch at Rodney's arm and pull him downward. There's youthful strength in his grip, and the faint glints of silver in his hair are subsumed by the wet, dark strands that are even more disheveled than usual. Rodney strokes his fingers through the wildness, though he knows nothing short of nuclear-powered hair-gel will tame it. The texture of John's hair is silky and clean, and when Rodney rubs his fingertips against John's scalp, John shivers and rolls to his stomach, the bend of his neck a shameless beg for more.

So, in the end Rodney says nothing, but climbs up to cover John's back and nibble at the soft skin below his hairline. John shivers again and mumbles, "Thought about this. This—you."

It's more than Rodney can stand. It takes him back to those eternal moments of losing John by inches, and now to learn John was thinking about him with the same desperation of fantasy, as a fleeting escape from the cold, unbearable reality—

"You're here," Rodney says again, and nibbles downward, mouths each knob of John's vertebrae until he reaches the small of John's back, that small space of skin that makes John arch and moan and thrust his hips against the mattress.

_Unthinkable._ If all the failings of science had cost Rodney this, he would have been a man without religion. Ex-communicated from the flock of believing in the here and now.

Except he has it. He has John spreading his legs for him in a silent plea, and Rodney bends his head and touches his mouth against secret flesh, rimming John with a delicate twist of tongue until John shudders and _gives_, and Rodney slips inside.

He spreads John's cheeks with his hands and pushes deeper, making John moan again, a surprised sound, and then John is silent except for the panting, as if he can't spare the breath to make a sound.

There is something so right about this, so dirty and real and _them_. John had been the one to introduce Rodney to rimming, ignoring his protests about hygiene and teasing him for being a priss. _It hasn't killed me yet,_ John had said, and Rodney had given in and let him do it, had been absolutely frozen by the sensation of John's tongue inside him and found himself coming before the heat could fade from his embarrassment.

This belongs to them, and right now there is no one else with them, just Rodney's tongue and John's ass and the faint whimpers that signal John is close, so close. Rodney lets go long enough to push off his boxers, and starts humping the sheet while he pushes his tongue in and out. John's hips start moving faster, thrusting down, and Rodney slips his hand between John's legs to give him something to push against, John's cock riding sweetly in the palm of Rodney's hand.

He uses his thumb to stroke the soft skin behind John's balls, and he feels it when John tenses, hears the low, rough moan of his voice, and then John's ass squeezes down and Rodney loses his place, surfacing to breathe heavily while John's cock pulses against his hand.

"God," John moans, "Dear God."

Rodney rest his cheek against John's ass and starts stroking himself, ignoring John's attempt to turn over, because he's close, and he can't wait.

"Come on me, Rodney," John says hoarsely.

_Hell, yes,_ Rodney thinks, and hoists himself up to jerk his cock over John's gorgeous ass and the long, slow bend of his spine. John turns his head to catch Rodney's eye before dropping his gaze to Rodney's cock, and that's it—that lazy smile, all John, restored and whole and _his_—and Rodney starts to come, spattering John's back and ass like a cheap come shot.

But so good. He's never had anything like this, never felt confident enough to let go like this. But now he knows John wants him to, and that's maybe the craziest thing of all.

Rodney is the one who has to go get a towel, of course—John never seems to care about that sort of thing, but there's a limit to how sticky one should feel in one's sleep, and John's threshold of discomfort has proven ridiculous.

John lets him clean him up, but when Rodney moves to find his boxers, John simply pulls him down and curls around him.

"Like this," John says, his voice lazy with pleasure. Gone is the tense man who had jerked away from Beckett's hands in the infirmary. Instead, here is Rodney's John, nuzzling sleepily against Rodney's arm where it meets his body and then sighing happily, as if smelling Rodney is smelling home.

Suddenly Rodney understands why John came here, why he'd buried his face in Rodney's pillow, and it makes Rodney's chest ache with terrified happiness. He knows how fallible the universe is—the awful fact is drilled into him on an almost daily basis, as if he were a slow student with a single, painful lesson to learn.

But for now, right here, contained within the curve of his arm—

He has everything.


End file.
